


re: Futatabi

by Teharissa



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Virtual Reality, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Eventual Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, Fans, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kaito Momota is trying, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Romance is there but its not the main point, Sad Saihara Shuichi, Self-Hatred, Shuichi will have some as friends tho about halfway through fic, Simulation, Slow Burn, So prewarning, Social Media, Suicidal Thoughts, There are original characters for the sake of necessity, Trauma, Virtual Reality, but none of them will have romantic entanglements with the main cast, postgame, they are all trying their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teharissa/pseuds/Teharissa
Summary: Shuichi Saihara had ended Danganronpa, had ended everything that had come with it. He'd been one of the only survivors, along with Maki and Himiko--a survival that had come at a great loss, a survival that had cost them everything. But it was a survival they planned on cherishing, coming to face with an outside world that didn't belong to them, and a promise to keep going.Shuichi Saihara stepped outside the broken dome, into the light, with the weight of dead souls hanging on his shoulders, a burden, apromisethat would never be lifted.He woke up, moments later, with those he'd condemned still alive, and the lie of Danganronpa refusing to cease, even in its apparent end.Aka: another postgame virtual reality au
Relationships: Akamatsu Kaede & Saihara Shuichi, Harukawa Maki & Saihara Shuichi & Yumeno Himiko, Harukawa Maki/Momota Kaito, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Momota Kaito & Saihara Shuichi, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 17
Kudos: 174
Collections: Purrsonal Picks





	1. Revive 0.0

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Danganronpa, or Danganronpa V3: Killing Harmony.

_“My eyes are constantly wide open to the extraordinary fact of existence. Not just human existence, but the existence of life and how this breathtakingly powerful process, which is natural selection, has managed to take the very simple faces of physics and chemistry and build them up to redwood trees and humans.”_  
\- Richard Dawkins

* * *

#### 

**Revive 0.0**

* * *

It was as if time simply ceased to exist.

Trapped within the confines of an endless void, darkness, and light existing at the same time without any remorse, without any rhyme or reason, he hung in the balance of a world that passed in merely a second, while stretching on for eternity. He could not feel aspects of his own body, nor could he get his limbs to cooperate, but he could at least feel the heaviness that rested on both his mind and body, the heaviness of his limbs and his brain and his heart. He couldn’t recall why he felt so heavy, or why he was here, or where exactly here even was. The void that stretched infinitely around him, in dark and light synchronicity, a void that both existed and did not all at once--he had no idea what it was.

He had no idea who _he_ was.

Maybe nothing existed, not even his own identity. Maybe the only proof that he even existed was this phantom heaviness that insisted on pressing on him, and even then, perhaps that was nothing more than a falsity of his nonexistent mind. There was no proof that he existed, there was no proof of him ever having existed. Memory was just as imaginary as time, he’d have to think, if not more so in how it so steadily remained out of his grasp. Memory was an illusion, as elusive as the wisps of smoke curling into a night sky.

He was not real.

_He wasn’t, his subconscious wailed, he was fiction._

He was nothing beyond singular nonexistence hanging in the balance of an illusionary world. Nothing more, nothing less. An emptiness, taking up no space and even less thought. He was a dream, if that.

_We stand with one foot in fiction, another foot in reality._

Reality. Fiction. Who was to say there was a difference? Who was to say it mattered? He most certainly didn’t, for reality didn’t touch his bounds, and neither did fiction. He existed in the middle, or in a place where neither could touch him.

_I reject that hope!_

Hope, such a flimsy concept in a void so dark and light at once.

_I reject that despair!_

Despair was just as silly a concept, in a world where everything bordered on harsh neutrality. Hope, despair--who is to say that either matter? Fiction, reality, lies, and truth--isn’t the truth what you believe? Are they all truly polar opposites, when they so easily cross with each other?

_We stand with one foot in fiction, another foot in reality._

These fragments of emotions, of thoughts, were too quick to place any name to, too quick to consider true, yet still, he felt something within him at the words. He felt something within him, something that tugged on his nonexistent heart, and pried at his soul, all from the meager utterance of concepts like truth, lies, fiction, reality.

_Wake up._

Wake up from what? He didn’t want to, not from here where it was peaceful and thoughtless, not here in an expanse without time or reason. He was happy here, if happy even was a concept that could exist in a place as void as this. Happiness, it seemed, would require feeling. He couldn’t feel, but not being able to feel was so much better than the grief that his thoughts provided him.

He floated. He hung. He was a puppet in the balance of this darkness, a puppet with nothing but flashes of memory, and the word _promise_ on the tip of his tongue. There was nothing more.

Promise.

He made a promise.

_WAKE UP._

What was the promise? Why did his nonexistent heart yearn at just the mention of the word, why did it beat in the emptiness of the void within the barring confines of his ribcage so erratically? What was so meaningful, so insistent, so _important_ about a word like promise?

Why did his mind shout and whisper at him, why was his memory whirring with nothing but flashes of purple and brown, of chiseled faces and soft words, of people and places he’d never seen, gone before he got a chance to really know who they were?

**_WAKE UP!_ **

And he remembered.

\--And his eyes flew open.

* * *

Shuichi Saihara awoke suddenly, and painfully, drawing awake with a sharp gasp that only served to stab the inside of his lungs like icicles. Everything around him was painfully intense--the feeling of his skin against a confined chamber, his sweat clinging to his skin and brow, the chill that took his body and had him shivering against his will. Most evidently, these sensations only heightened in the wake of his confused state, and in his apparent blindness.

Where was he?

His breathing, each shaky inhale of frozen air grew shaky and labored as panic flew through his mind. The last thing he remembered--and he was sure of it--was walking into the light with Yumeno and Harukawa, ready to face an outside world that they had no part of. There was no memory beyond that, no memory to even slightly prove to him why he was here of all places, no memory of life beyond the academy. This wasn’t--how had he gotten here?

Shuichi didn’t know, and that was the problem. He was entirely unaware of how he’d ended up in this situation, of the events that had so brought him here. He didn’t even properly know what this situation _even was_ , so entirely unaware as he was. Questions persisted, lingering in his head and continuing in their increasingly frantic persistence--where was he? What was happening? Why was his body so heavy and cold and why did it hurt to breathe? Where were Harukawa and Yumeno?

What had happened to him?

There wasn’t even the slightest memory of the world beyond the fiction he’d come to know. It would be a lie to say that didn’t scare him. And currently, the questions refused to stop in the panicked nature of his mind, and he felt, more than realized, that the ice-cold breaths in his chest had ceased, and that he couldn’t breathe. It was useless--every fruitless attempt to gulp in air succeeded nothing, not when he couldn’t see, when he couldn’t even move.

It was the sort of panic he couldn’t stop, not with the confusion and the heavy presence of himself, not with the way his heart seemed to leap into his throat with increased erratic beats. He was only aware of three things; he was alone, he couldn’t move, and he was so, incredibly, blind. Blind in all senses of the world, blind to his own circumstances, and unable to see beyond a steady blackness that extended infinitely in front of him, despite the way solid surface touching his skin and constricting his body said otherwise. And so he was only those three things, trapped with the confines of his own awareness.

And so, he suddenly was none of those things anymore.

There were hands on him, though from where they came he had no idea. Gentle touch, running over his sensitive skin, all Shuichi could manage to do was gasp--choking on the air his body refused to breathe--at the feeling. They were gentle hands, careful in the way they pulled at him, doing who knows what, but Shuichi couldn’t help but flinch away, feeling the touch to be _wrong_ , a violation despite their soft care. They only helped him rise from the confines of his cage, from whatever place he was being held in, but still, he couldn’t help but feel traces of wherever they’d been on his skin.

The hands were not all--hands that were both wrong yet so exhilaratingly warm, a warmth he craved as the air insisted on its chilling duty. There were also voices, lilting and placid, dripping with fake sugar and sweetness. Of what the words were saying, Shuichi had no clue--they were indistinguishable in his hazy mind, yet still, they accompanied every action of the hands that lay on him so prominently. And yet--despite the way he stilled so resolutely in their grasp--there was something else. Something that held onto his heart with a grief he hadn’t expected, pulling and crying and sobbing like a little monster beating in his chest--a monster he’d long thought he’d killed.

The something that had reawakened that little monster, that something that hurt so much just to hear, was a voice so unlike the others. It was young and feminine and oh so familiar, something so beautiful and _wrong_ because that voice couldn’t be here. That voice had to be some broken fragment of his grief-stricken mind, because there was no way that she would be here.

There was no way she _could_ be here.

She spoke and Shuichi realized he was crying.

Because she couldn’t be real. She was _dead_.

He’d seen her die in front of him.

It was enough of a distraction that he barely even registered the pain in the sides of his skull, the strange sounds as something heavy were lifted off of his head, and (as he later realized) disconnected from his brain. The blindness that had so hindered him disappeared too quickly, and Shuichi had to press his eyes closed, blinking fervently in the brightness that so assaulted him. But the touch of strangers, of comfortingly warm touch that Shuichi felt all too broken under didn’t cease, and as his vision came back to him, the previously blurred lines that hurt to look at coming into focus, Shuichi could see.

He could see the people who touched him, men and women in white clothes and surgical masks, looking at him with pity. He could see the strange room he was in--nothing like he’d ever seen before, a room decorated with equipment of varying oddness, looking much the part of something in a science fiction movie. He could see the way he’d fallen out of one of the pods that decorated the room, the place that must have been so confining to him before, a place with wires and hooks and with a large set piece of headgear in place, something with long prods of steel that looked like they were supposed to insert directly into one’s brain.

But most importantly, he could see her.

 _This couldn’t be real._ There was no way, she was dead, she was dead, she was dead--

He couldn’t breathe.

Sound flooded his senses, overwhelming him easily--but he only truly heard one thing. Her voice, still ever so familiar, ever so heartwrenching.

“Saihara-kun!”

Akamatsu, alive and bright and so evidently _there_ , was situated in the entryway of the room, held back by a singular man. Her eyes betrayed concern, understanding, frustration, but more than anything they were ever so vivid, eyes that moved and saw and didn’t merely stare deadened at nothing. They were eyes that went wide at the sight of him again, and his lungs refused to provide for him, leaving him gasping on nothing in the desperate attempt to fill his lungs with air.

How?

How could she be alive?

Shuichi had seen her die, had seen them _all_ die. 

He’d seen her dead body, hanging lifelessly. He’d seen the terror in her face as she’d struggled for air, as her feet had helplessly danged at the edges of the piano, how she’d turned all those shades of blue and purple from lack of air and her mouth formed soundless gasps, how her eyes had lost focus, and her body had broken, bleeding under the final wounds that ended her last moments of struggle--he’d seen it all.

There was no way she could be here now. No way she could be protesting the man who tried to herd her out the door.

The sobs that wracked his body increased in their fervor intensity, silent yet shuddering. There was a hand on his shoulder, and then--“calm down. Breathe.” Like he could even do that. Like some choice comfort from a stranger could possibly achieve anything. Like a voice from someone who was holding his arm just a little too tightly was someone Shuichi could trust. He didn’t trust the hands that were holding his chest and arms, the voices telling him to breathe, and goddamnit, of course, he wanted to stop crying, of course, he wanted to breathe, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Akamatsu looked stricken.

“Saihara-kun! Let me get to him, he needs--he needs me!”

His lungs burned.

Had his vision always been this blurry? The world seemed to fade in and out all around him, fuzzing at the edges in a way that Shuichi knew wasn’t natural. His heart was beating frantically, like the fluttering life of butterfly wings against the cavern in his chest, while his skin felt molten everywhere he was touched. Raw and molten and invaded.

All he could see was Akamatsu, in her continued persistence to get to him, a trick of his mind or the light perhaps, someone who wasn’t there because she couldn’t be, because she was _dead_. Even now she played against his memories, voice raised in angry pitch as the man forcibly dragged her back, her hand extending out to reach him--

\-- _clamp on her neck, gone, gone, gone, he couldn’t do anything, she was taken, she was killed, she was dead, this was not real, this was not **real**_ \--

“Stop!”

Whose voice was that?

It was weak and hoarse and pitifully small, only fueled by the rapid-fire breaths he’d begun to breathe in the midst of the memory, breaths that stabbed at him with freezing cold hurt. While his lungs still burned, and his vision blurred at the edges, oxygen--at the least--didn’t deny him any longer. Even with the way his head spun so unnaturally, at least that much was changed. Yet still, he was pressed with the images that played in his head over and over, the very memory of Akamatsu being taken, her limp, still warm body staring lifelessly at him, blood dripping down her pastel clothes and staining the piano keys with their taint.

“He needs me!” this Akamatsu cries, her face contorted into so much pain and fear for him, and it looked so real. So very real. But those were the last words she got before she was pulled outside and silenced by the closed door. Shuichi was well and truly alone, alone with his memories, alone with these strangers who were holding him too tightly, and whispering fake comforts into his ear, alone with the blood and gaping dead faces every time he closed his eyes.

“Please,” he sobbed. He didn’t know what for. What could he possibly be begging for, in a place such as this? For Yumeno and Harukawa? For Akamatsu? For everything to just end, for his suffering to _stop_? To just explain why he’d done what he’d done, to apologize for everything he needed to?

He never got the chance to figure it out, as his body finally succumbed to unconsciousness, eyes slipping shut with a last shaky sob, falling back into the hands he didn’t trust, and into a sleep he didn’t want.

* * *

When Shuichi awoke again, he was greeted with the sight of an empty hospital room; dressed sparsely, and with the distinct scent of sanitation permeating his senses. He took it in with a clinical eye, as he appeared to be alone; it was typical, in the white walls and cabinets, the uncomfortable cot with an IV hooked up to him, a singular window overlooking buildings that’s angle proved the room to be at least on the fourth floor. In short, Shuichi was in a hospital, or at least a place with abundant medical supplies and trying to match a hospital’s likeness.

But that was something anyone could see, given they used their eyes--Shuichi was hardly something special for figuring that out. Really, it was plain for anyone to see, even in his current state.

His current state being, that is, a panic that resided deep inside him, a panic that refused to leave the place in his heart that it had hollowed out for itself. Every time he blinked the image of Akamatsu’s hand reaching out to him, her moving, active, _alive_ form flashed behind his eyes. He didn’t know where he was, and this whole situation was made worse by the mere fact that he knew she couldn’t be real, because he’d seen her die. In Danganronpa.

That was really the priority, though. Danganronpa. It seemed it always was the root of everything in Shuichi’s (apparent) short life, it was the reason for his existence and also the reason for his torment. Questions pressed at his mind, questions that were simple yet so vastly important. Where was he? How did he get here? What happened between point a (being Danganronpa’s survivors with Yumeno and Harukawa) and point b (waking up in an unknown facility in a panicked state)? Were Yumeno and Harukawa here too, or just him? Was he safe or not?

Or, if he were to be less specific, he only had one question; what happened?

A broad question maybe, with plenty of possible answers, but Shuichi had no idea how he’d gotten here. His last memory was no help, so maybe...maybe something had happened to him, something that hurt his memories or maybe he actually had died and landed in some kind of pseudo hell. The thought was startlingly ironic, considering how much he’d fought for, how hard he’d fought to survive, only to end up in a place he didn’t believe in.

Well, granted, he really didn’t believe in an afterlife. He doubted--quite heavily--that that’s where he was. Something else had to be at work here, something human and logical.

Alone as he was--though he could hear the faint sounds of conversation outside his door--there was no way of getting answers. But still, an examination of his own body was important enough. His throat felt raw, and especially dry--almost like it was bleeding and scabbing on the inside from lack of use. This was without even mentioning his body--something frail and weak, his limbs looking rather like twigs in their current state, and the unhealthy pale shade of his skin only attested to how he felt. He felt trapped in his own body, a body so strangely weak for something he remembered so differently. Shuichi, in short, felt led to believe he’d been here a while.

He could work with that, though it sent another wave of panic through him that he only just barely managed to contain. He could do this. He was a detective--

Was he really?

He had thought he was. He had come so far, had finally been able to believe in himself in a way that he’d never felt before. Everything he’d done, he’d done for the sake of keeping everyone alive, but in the process he’d learned so much about himself that he’d never expected. But now--here he was. Not a detective.

No, he was nothing but a deranged fanboy. Someone who had loved Danganronpa, for what it was. His entire life was a lie, false memories that meant nothing in a real world. Shuichi Saihara was fiction, a pawn in the grand scheme of Danganronpa. He was nothing. He continued to be nothing. And he was not the truth he’d fought so valiantly for--no, the truth was a cold person, an evil person, a person who wanted nothing more than to murder, the truth was that Shuichi was a monster who _wanted_ to be put in that horrific game.

He was not a detective. Not really. He was not a seeker of the truth, not a person, not even real.

Bile rose in his throat, and he closed his eyes to take a couple deep, shuddering breaths. Each one he took only made him more aware of the sting in the corners of his eyes, and Shuichi wished he could say that he wasn’t about to cry. He wished so desperately that he could just say strong, like he was supposed to. He couldn’t cry.

He was supposed to live. He was supposed to live, head held high, and smiling for everyone who had died. His own grief, his own sadness, his own hatred at himself for who he’d been, and what he’d done, all the murders he’d committed by condemning the blackened, _everything_ \--it was supposed to be cast aside for the sake of life. For the sake of them.

He blinked away the tears, releasing another shaky breath before casting his eyes over the room again, and letting himself pretend just for a little while longer that he knew who he was.

Because he had to. Because if he thought any longer on the subject he didn’t know if he could do what he needed to, for the others.

Gathering evidence, at the least, was something he could do. For himself, just as much as it was for the others. Several stories up, in a hospital, so if he was being given care, that meant that he was safe on some level. That these people weren’t necessarily against him, allies or at least people willing to heal him. Considering the pathetic state of his body, Shuichi would say that he’d been here for at least a couple of months, and likely that meant that Harukawa and Yumeno were here too. Maybe they were fine, maybe they were in the same situation as him--this situation which implied something had happened. He was clearly asleep for most of it--so coma? But how had he come into one, or something of the like?

It wasn’t a lot to go off of. Shuichi might even go as far as to say that it provided more questions than it did answers, but having any sort of knowledge at all benefited him. In a place where man knows nothing, that is where the most danger lay. Knowledge sedates the danger of unpredictability, and so Shuichi at least could trust in that.

Yet his mind persisted, head throbbing the further he let it wander. A reminder of the state of his body--beyond the weakened limbs and malnourished sunken look to the flesh, there was something else, a glaringly obvious hint at what had occurred. The jolt of pain that lanced through his skull at the slightest movement of his head was proof enough of that, a blatant reminder of how he’d woken up--the headset with rods of steel that seemed to have been removed from his head, and detached itself from his brain when he’d awoken. Almost as if it had been drilled into his skull, a thought which perhaps held more merit than he wanted to admit. There had been people holding him (he could still feel their hands on hi m if he tried, hands that felt wrong on his body, that felt too tight against his sensitive skin), likely taking vitals as they calmed him, and removing the headset--or whatever it was--if the order of events was any indication.

The evidence, as Shuichi had chosen to call it, continued from there. The man that had held Akamatsu back--he looked different from the doctors and medical personal that had surrounded him. He was dressed smartly, with a stern expression, and a general aura of unease around him. Akamatsu herself didn’t seem to like him very much, with the way she’d struggled against his grip, trying to get to him.

And then there was her.

A painful hallucination and Shuichi was willing to bet that if Akamatsu wasn’t really there, then that man had to be just another part of the strange vision, his mind tormenting him with her struggle. There was no way it could be real because he’d seen her die right in front of him. 

Unless…

No. It couldn’t be. This idea, this lingering sensation of doubt and theory that persisted, as his mind consumed the evidence so presented to him, formulated an impossible hypothesis. An educated guess, at best, but even he himself couldn’t believe what his own mind had come up with. It just...it wasn’t possible.

Could it be?

It explained so much. It explained Akamatsu’s presence, it explained the equipment, where he’d woken up, it explained the gaps in his memory, it explained so much despite its impossibility. It was a theory founded on desperation and his own inner turmoil. But his evidence had led him here. And if the game had taught him nothing else, if Akamatsu and Kaito had taught him nothing else--maybe believing in himself just one more time would be enough. He was a seeker of the truth, after all, a detective.

Even if that much was a lie he had to believe in his abilities. Because they hadn’t failed him yet--

_Except they had. They had and he knew it, remembering Shirogane’s face when she’d admitted to killing Amami. If his theory was true, would he see them again? Would he have to look at their faces knowing that he’d messed up, that he’d not been able to save Amami or Akamatsu?_

Even if he doubted himself, what other explanation was there? Certainly, none that fit quite the way this one did, theories that lodged themselves uncomfortable within the puzzle of evidence, barely managing to hold a semblance of what they were. This theory, on a smaller scale, was infallible, on a larger scale seemed impossible due to its nature.

But the evidence fit.

There would be no way to prove it without confirmation though, and Shuichi felt tired again--the process of thinking so heavily through his throbbing head and cold, shivering body, the fear that fluttered in his heart and the anxiety that blanketed him--all of it had taken its due toll on his mind and body, rendering him exhausted. The theory that floated within the confines of his head only furthered this exhaustion, it’s very existence inspiring a flicker of hope that Shuichi didn’t want. He didn’t want to sleep, not until his theory was confirmed or denied, but his own body was quick to betray him, and it wasn’t long before his eyes slipped closed, the world fading to background noise in the captivating peaceful, dreamless presence that was sleep. Or rather, a state of healing, an unconsciousness--sleep was something different, something that came rife with dreams of both good and bad, and Shuichi was far too weak to quite sleep yet.

Even this state was light, however, leaving Shuichi in a constant brush against reality--his eyes fluttering open frequently before shutting again with a sigh. Should anyone come into the room, his rest would be disturbed easily, due to the very nature of his rest. And, as it seemed, that is exactly what happened.

The faint sounds of someone opening the door, spilling light from the hallway beyond onto his closed eyelids was enough to pry him from his rest, and Shuichi winced sudden presence. There was something comfortable about being alone, something comfortable that fled the moment he was caught in the presence of another.

His eyes opened to slits, mind foggy and heavy under the exhaustion. Vaguely, he could see the blurry outline of two people--one significantly larger than the other, in shoulder-length and height. Male. Female for the other one, her hair pulled back from her face. As his vision focused--something helped by the closing of the door, removing the presence of blinding light from the rest of the hospital. 

They were an odd pair; the man was dressed in a white lab coat typical of doctors, his dark eyes watching Shuichi with a look that almost felt like concern. The woman, meanwhile, was clothed in a dress that hugged her features, a dress formal and simple in both regards. Something about her, perhaps the phone she tapped idly at, drew Shuichi’s attention. But it wasn’t she who spoke first, rather, it was the man.

“You’re up.”

The words were deeper than Shuichi expected, full in a way that seemed to befit the man’s appearance. He didn’t say anything more to begin, approaching the bed slowly, deliberately--as if Shuichi were a wild animal. Insulting, really, but Shuichi couldn’t blame him. Not when he remembered all too clearly how he’d woken up, panicked and feral and scared.

Still, it was the woman who reached his bedside first, fixing him with a bored look. For a moment, neither spoke.

“So here is our little winner,” she drawled, “Mind if I take it first, Yamazaki-sensei?”*

The man who Shuichi presumed was Yamazaki nodded, his lips pursed. The tension in the room was palpable, and he opened his mouth in hopes of saying something, though it only resulted in a reminder of just how dry his mouth was. He closed it again without making a sound.

“Be my guest,” Yamazaki said, “Just don’t traumatize him too much.”

His theory. Shuichi...he needed to know. If he was right. If this crazy, outlandish, desperate hypothesis had any basis. It wasn’t necessarily true, not even close. People made mistakes, but everytime he closed his eyes he found himself certain that this is where the evidence led to him, that this could have happened.

He’d discovered more on less, before.

“Congratulations,” the woman said, malice dripping from her words, “For winning Danganronpa. Woo.”

Shuichi felt something inside him wither at the acknowledgement of Danganronpa. Winning--hadn’t he ended it? Danganronpa, this horrible, horrible thing--it pressed at every one of his nerves, a reminder of the horrible things he’d seen and done. The horrible things that had occured.

However, despite his flinch, despite the turmoil of feelings inside of him, the woman didn’t stop speaking.

“I’m Miyahara Shinju, representative of Danganronpa. And I’m here to explain things to you, about the game that you’ve won. Are you ready for me to proceed?” The words were bored, as if recited from a book or from a lecture. They felt anything but real, or sincere, yet still, hearing them provided a whole host of new emotions stuttering in his soul.

He could only stare blankly at her, heart beating erratically at the implications. By all technicalities, this woman in front of him was an enemy. Her words only served to confirm his suspicions further--he was still with Danganronpa. But with each passing moment, he felt his theory solidify and gain shape in his head. Was it wrong to feel this burgeoning hope blossom in his chest, even as he tried so hard to deny it? Maybe.

But it was impossible not to see his theory take life. He was right, after all. He knew he was right, even if there was nothing else he could be confident in. And now was his chance to confirm it.

Miyahara quirked a brow, expecting a response. A response that Shuichi suddenly rushed to give--a small, dull nod, yet definitely there in all its shortness. His chest felt tight, clenching with the implications of what he knew she was going to say. What if this was just a dream, a dream where his imagination found some convoluted way to let his friends live, a dream that he’d wake up from feeling cold and empty because he knew they were gone?

He didn’t think he could survive if this was a dream.

His lips were dry.

“Don’t, fuck if I know, pass out or anything, okay?” Miyahara said, “And listen to what I’m about to tell you. No questions until the end, I know it’ll be a shock.”

He had to remember to breathe.

One breath in.

Another out.

Miyahara sighed.

_In._

_Out._

Her mouth opened.

His heart pulsed.

“Danganronpa was just a simulation.”

_And time stopped._


	2. Reboot 1.1

_“La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu’il n’existe pas.”_  
\- Charles Baudelaire  
_”The Devil’s finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.”_

* * *

#### 

**Reboot 1.1**

* * *

He was right.

Was this relief coursing through his system? Or dread? Perhaps it was both, in a delicious combination, one that felt so foreign yet so integral to Shuichi. Of course, there had to be one final lie, a climax of Shirogane’s plot. Logically, it felt that way, even though Shuichi knew the climax was long over. It all was over. Everything.

Yet it was a new beginning.

It had been hours since Miyahara left, and Shuichi had taken to watching the land beyond his window, dimly. For every passing moment of relief, there was a greater one of fear. Of grief. Of anger. The city looked beautiful at night, he had come to realize. There were skyscrapers that stood starkly against the pitch of the sky, glowing with energy and people. He’d never realized how badly he’d come to crave people when all he’d ever come to know (logically) were the same sixteen—day in and day out, a sixteen that dwindled and betrayed one another until all that was left was fear and paranoia.

But this brand new shining world, all complete with a gift bow, was not perfect. Shuichi would freely admit he was scared of a world like this one, scared of a world where killing was entertainment, where his trauma was something capitalized on and freely shared. How could he not be scared of it? Supposedly this world had come to know peace, but peace felt so foreign a concept to him, someone who had been born from the mistakes of anger and violence, someone who had come into this world only to kill and be killed in turn. He had no privacy, no freedom, no life. He was something fictional in a real, cruel world. 

A world where he was fiction--where exactly did he fit into that picture? And the others? Where did any of them fit into this place that had hurt them so much? When they had hurt each other so much?

It was a question with no discernable answer so Shuichi kept his gaze fixed on the window, in a whirl of thoughts. Beside him, on a previously empty end table, there were new decorations: a vase of flowers, flowers the color of blood, and a basket filled with various goods. Some chocolate truffles peeked out the top, but Shuichi refused to examine it further due to the presence of an all-too-familiar bear plush sitting snugly within the basket itself.

There was also a note, enclosed within an envelope, but Shuichi hadn’t looked at it, not yet. He kept his gaze fixed on the world outside his window, the world so far from his own, and his mind fixed on thoughts of the people he considered his friends.

Even just the mention of them left his heart seizing. They were alive. _Alive_. Everything he’d seen, everything that had happened to them, was erased in the blink of an eye. Akamatsu truly had been there, reaching for him, though that realization made something deep inside of him lurch with the knowledge that he hadn’t been strong, not the way he’d wanted to be. He’d hadn’t been strong for her. He had done nothing to accomplish her wish, had done nothing but murder, and murder, and murder, sending each of his classmates off to their deaths in turn, over and over and over like a neverending cycle of blood and condemnation.

He’d promised her--and yet, had he ever managed to uphold that promise?

Had he ever managed to achieve anything? Had the truth meant anything after all this time? The truth had hurt his classmates time and time again, promising pain to them for every instant of suffering. The truth had revealed Danganronpa, had revealed his past, had revealed the terrible choices he’d taken to get here. And when he’d thought he’d ended it, when he’d thought he’d accomplish at least one thing with his miserable life, he’d done nothing.

“A blow to Danganronpa,” Miyahara had called it. A blow. Not an end. Anything but an end, apparently, considering the fact that auditions for the fifty-fourth season were due to be happening in the coming months, with hundreds of applicants already. Shuichi had dealt some serious damage to the company, but Danganronpa was a corporation that had existed for years, thriving on their popularity, and one “bad” season couldn’t ruin it all.

A pity, they’d called it, that their golden protagonist had been so controversial. If only Akamatsu hadn’t died so early, critics were saying. She had potential, Miyahara had noted dully, in her general explanation of why Shuichi had been terrible. Much more potential than a broken detective who had nothing left to live for.

Regardless, Shuichi really had dealt them some damage, but not enough. He still belonged to Danganronpa. From his bedside, the papers with his own name signed off reminded him easily enough of that--he was legally bound to them, by so many different contracts and forms that he’d been fine signing back before he became fictional, back when he was a deranged fanboy with nothing better to do but plot murders. He’d chosen this.

He’d chosen this and now he was nothing more than a pawn of the game. Revealing the truth? Making his own path? Pathetic goals that would amount to nothing. Shuichi had never been able to accomplish anything in his life. Never been able to hold to his promise. Never managed to break the world that had so controlled him. The only good that the truth had ever given him was his friend’s survival, the fact that they all were still alive despite the events that had transpired.

And wasn’t that a strange thought?

They were alive. Within the very same wing as him, in the very same building. Traumatized, broken, but still here. Despite everything else, it really was the greatest blessing he could have asked for. Their lives, in exchange for the lie they had believed to be the truth. It was an easy exchange, because if nothing else, they weren’t dead.

They weren’t dead.

It was unbelievable, really.

He still couldn’t really believe it, granted. How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw their faces. All of them--one at a time, replaying over and over again beneath his eyelids. Akamatsu, Momota, and Ouma, somehow, were all the first to come to mind. He knew why, for each of them. They each had a reason attached to their end that had branded their final moments to his mind like a leech, so that he couldn’t think of the game without thinking of them.

For Akamatsu, the answer was simple. She had meant so much to him, in the short time of knowing her Shuichi had felt she had become a constant in his life, a positive force that he’d needed. And yet, when it came down to it, she had sacrificed herself to stop the game, and had paid the final price. She was the first, and the only reminder Shuichi was given on how deadly the game was, how real it was. She had been not a reminder, but a realization, really. A realization that it was real.

Momota was easily trapped within his memory because, when he was weak, when Akamatsu tore him down, Momota had taken her role. Except, not really, he was bright and positive like Akamatsu, but he was something entirely different at once, an enigmatic force that was determined to win without killing, someone who could smile and brighten a room, and someone who’s hope was infectious. Even in his last moments, defiant smirk attached to his bloodstained face, he had never given up.

And then there was Ouma.

Ouma was...strange, felt the befitting word. Even after his death, Shuichi hadn’t understood him. He didn’t understand what Ouma was, why he’d done the things he did, he didn’t even understand his own feelings towards him--was it anger? Confusion? Certainly, both, as well as a curiosity he couldn’t sate but most prominently...he felt pity. And wasn’t it hilarious?--Shuichi felt the one thing he was sure Ouma wouldn’t want him to, the one emotion Shuichi actually understood Ouma enough to know that he’d hate.

Ouma wouldn’t have wanted pity.

Or rather, Ouma _didn’t_ want pity. He was still here--alive, breathing.

They all were. Every single one of them, perfectly alive despite everything that had occurred. And yes, those three always were the first in his memory, the three bodies (two bodies, one bloodstain, by all technicalities) were seemingly branded to the inside of his eyelids. He closed his eyes, and he saw them, everytime. He saw the terror in Akamatsu’s eyes, clutching desperately at her throat, he saw the defeated defiance (a controversy, a paradox, an inspiration like he always was) in Momota, he saw the lie and the childish grin that was Ouma’s memory dancing across his mind. He saw it all.

How could he face them?

How could he face any of them when he’d failed them all?

There was no answer in the city that lay beyond his window, a city previously so beautiful in it’s light and peace, a city that Shuichi had seen as proof of what lay beyond his fictional world. It was a city of idealistic hope and reality, a city that glimmered with promise and opportunity. What right did Shuichi and the others have, to try to fit themselves into such a world? What right did they even have to live?

None, is what the blinking lights of the city seemed to answer. None. The answer was that he had no right to any of these things, and he lay down dully, still watching the outside flicker in his vision.

Living was a privilege for the real, and Shuichi was well aware that he wasn’t. Real, that is. This heartbeat in his chest was just as fictional as his mind was, his personality, even his own memories. Nothing, from all the time he had spent fighting, down to his own life was real. He only found some respite in how he had managed to hurt Danganronpa, even if not permanently as he’d hoped, with Harukawa and Yumeno by his side.

Yumeno. Harukawa.

He wondered where they were. He hoped that they were taking this better than he was, though something inside him doubted it. They were strong, resilient, but this truth was one Shuichi had deduced for himself, while for them--

For them, he was sure it had come out of nowhere. It would have been unexpected, it would have both broken and lifted their worlds, and Shuichi wished they were all with each other, if only so he could have the comfort of people he trusted. So that maybe, they could be there for each other. Keep each other sane.

He just hoped they were okay. That maybe, soon, he could see them.

That was another thing, something Yamazaki was very clear on. The fact that he was so restrained to this room, both by his body’s weak state, and the doctor’s instructions. None of season fifty-three’s residents were allowed to see each other, not until they were told otherwise. Apparently there was a distrust and resentment between certain factions, tensions due to their circumstances. It really was nothing surprising, considering what they’d been through. Shuichi would be more surprised if things suddenly went back to normal, as if they were just normal teenagers with nothing wrong between them.

How Shuichi wished that was true.

Akamatsu’s appearance when he’d woken up, apparently, was a mini-jailbreak on her end. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but due to her own determination, and the hospital staff underestimating her talents, she’d managed it. Shuichi really did admire her, the strength and confidence in which she did everything. She accomplished what she wanted to do.

Shuichi wished he could say something--to apologize to her, maybe? To promise her that he was alright (no matter how much of a lie that was)? He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say, but he wanted to say something to her, and that need, that want, was enough to leave him restless and desperate to see her again.

He would see her again, though. Maybe not for a little while, but there were group sessions: supervised times where his class was gathered to work through their problems. It sounded like an absolutely terrible idea, yet still, for some reason, the doctor’s had implemented it, sure it would enhance their recovery. At some point, Shuichi would join these sessions, when he was feeling well enough.

He wasn’t sure if the thought made him happy or want to vomit.

Either way, Shuichi would see them all again. From Akamatsu, and her bright smile, to Momota, a confidence he exuded like no other. He’d see Ouma. Shinguji. _Shirogane_.

Just the mention of her name was enough for him to shudder with unease, not wanting to see her ever again. It wasn’t that he was glad she had been dead, except that might just be it. Maybe a part of him shuddered with the vengeance he wished he didn’t have, an angry and primal desire that reminded him just how much of a monster he himself was. 

But no matter what, Shirogane was worse. Would always be worse. And he didn’t want to imagine seeing her ever again, ever seeing that manic look in her eye, or that delight in his friend’s deaths. 

How Shuichi could ever bear to face her again was uncertain. How he could even imagine looking into her manic eyes, blue and dead, and _completely devoid_ of any basic human emotion. Shirogane was nothing but a lie herself, a falsity of Danganronpa, and yet still, the thought of seeing her still terrified him.

But for now, he’d have to rely on what little sanity he felt he had left. 

There was nothing else he could do, but to rely on that, and to let sleep--the everpresent rest that he didn’t deserve--take him. So once again, he took to staring out the window, avoiding one of the few things that was supposed to help, one of the few things he could actually do, and instead he focused on the flickering lights of the outside world, the constant pulse of the city’s life.

It was a pulse stronger than his own, he thought, a pulse more alive.

He wasn’t entirely aware of the door when it opened, still far too focused on the world beyond his window, the large floor to window panes of glass that so mesmerized him. Still, there was the distinct creak of the door opening, and then footsteps approaching the bed. Perhaps if Shuichi were an assassin, or someone more, he’d have been more alert, but as it was, he didn’t notice the additional presence until someone cleared their throat.

Yamazaki stood by Shuichi’s bedside, clipboard tucked under his arm and glasses glinting with the shine of the city beyond the window. Yet even with the false promises that so seemed to decorate his glasses, he kept his eyes fixed on Shuichi. Shuichi turned his head, noting the new presence with belated shock, too tired to properly react.

“You’re up,” Yamazaki said, so similar to when he’d first seen Shuichi awake, that short time of a few hours ago. It was proof enough that one’s universe could change so wholeheartedly, within such a short period of time. But still, Yamazaki seemed less surprised this time, with a knowing quirk to his lip.

Almost like he knew Shuichi’s mind would protest rest so readily. Yamazaki had the type of eyes that books frequently gave to the old, wizened wizards beyond their years: eyes with a twinkle, and with this ability to see past one’s soul. It was strange to see on someone who couldn’t have been over thirty five, and unpleasant to associate with someone who colluded with Danganronpa. But, still, Shuichi felt that those eyes could see anything he tried to hide, could see all the struggles of his mind.

He didn’t respond, at first. Yamazaki took that as a sign to keep talking.

“We need to discuss treatment,” Yamazaki’s voice drawled, as he crossed the room to remove several items from the counter: a clipboard, a couple of pens, a stethoscope. Shuichi was pretty sure the stethoscope was mostly for show anyway, considering it was unneeded at the time--simply something Yamazaki was used to doing, a habit of removing it from the drawer and hanging it around his neck. The other items were clearly more fit for what they’d be doing, and so Shuichi sat, his eyelids heavy with the need to sleep and heart heavy with the thoughts from before.

Eventually, Yamazaki settled by Shuichi again--having dragged a stool over so that he could sit with a sigh. Shuichi watched him.

“So,” Yamazaki said, voice prim and clinical, “We have a lot to discuss. About your recovery.”

Recovery. It was a word that was used frequently--almost like Shuichi had been through a car crash, and needed to heal again. As if what he had been through had been entirely physical, and not this mental rip through his psyche. Shuichi hated the cool way in which Yamazaki said the words.

“First off,” Yamazaki gave no indication of knowing Shuichi’s thoughts as he continued, “Therapy. You’ll have three individual sessions a week, each around an hour along. You’re expected to go to them, as they are mandatory, and I’ll escort you there and back. These sessions are to help you properly heal to the best of your ability. Is this alright with you?”

Yamazaki fixed Shuichi with another look. Shuichi frowned.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Shuichi tried, and his voice felt so abrasive, his tongue quaking with the effort it took to speak. He had to wonder how long he’d been trapped in the simulation for speaking to be so difficult, albeit, definitely possible. Just barely difficult enough to notice. Maybe a month? Or would it be longer?

Yamazaki rolled his eyes at the words, but jotted down something on the edge of the clipboard--Shuichi wished he could see, but granted, he supposed that would defeat the purpose of the clipboard in the first place. If he could see everything the doctor’s felt about him, about his so-called “recovery.”

“Secondly,” Yamazaki said without acknowledging Shuichi’s words further, “You will have thirty to fourty-five minute physical therapy sessions to rebuild your body’s former strength, as well as whatever you’d need for speech. This starts tomorrow, for you, just so you know. This is mandatory as well.”

Yamazaki paused here, waiting for Shuichi to give any hint of acknowledgement. It was this that he came to give only moments later, a small and slight nod, signifying he understood. Actually, unlike general therapy, he was looking forward to this--to regaining the ability to move. It would be a lot of hard work, but then again, when had anything ever been easy?

“Thirdly,” Yamazaki said, “I already touched on this briefly, but there are group therapy sessions twice a month. Each of these sessions lasts an hour to two hours, and is meant to solve any discord among your season. Granted, there are individual killer and killed therapies, but that hardly matters for you, as a survivor. These sessions aren’t...exactly, mandatory, but it’s highly recommended, and to get exempted from them takes a lot of effort. Effort you really shouldn’t put in.”

Yamazaki paused here, tapping his lip with one of the pens. It had blue ink, Shuichi realized, rather unhelpfully. Shuichi watched the motion of him tapping--each a small hit of the pen against his lip. It was a motion he could easily follow, while Yamazaki deliberated his next words.

Group therapy. Once again, Shuichi wondered at it. Would he be able to go? He wanted to see everyone again. To memorize each of their faces, to see them all alive, breathing. It was hard to imagine, when each of their faces seemed permanently marred by the unpleasant aura of death.

He was sure that the group therapy sessions would be a nightmare. But still, Shuichi couldn’t help but look forward to them.

Because, if nothing else, it was a way for Shuichi to finally get back those he had lost, to see that they were real and truly here. He could almost imagine all of them now, and yet, it felt like too much to hope for, the concept of them _alive._

Yamazaki wasn’t, apparently, done talking. This was a fact Shuichi realized a few moments into his thoughts, when Yamazaki cleared his throat and set his clipboard aside dramatically. “There is,” Yamazaki began, “One more thing I’d like to discuss, right now. It’s important to you.”

Shuichi, if asked, would say he was rather curious. The choice of words, as well as the tentative way that Yamazaki spoke them seemed proof enough of that. But he also wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear--how could he?

His whole world had been broken, over and over and over, all in the short time of him existing. Because Shuichi as he knew himself, _didn’t_ exist, not really. He was something created, fictional, and had only existed for as long as the killing game took place. He didn’t belong in a world like this.

And he certainly wasn’t ready for any new revelations, even despite the ever-present curiosity in him. The question, or need perhaps, to know more.

But it wasn’t like he had a choice, either way. Yamazaki would say what he needed to say, what he considered necessary, and Shuichi would listen for no other reason than he had to, that it was, just as Yamazaki deemed it, necessary.

“As you know,” Yamazaki said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “You’re not real.”

And wow. If that wasn’t comforting, to hear what Shuichi had been thinking out loud like that. He winced slightly, unsure where this conversation was going.

“But Shuichi Saihara, by all technicalities, is real. He has existed, aged, grown. And as such…he has a family. You have a family. A family that has been wondering when is the best time to see you now that you’re awake. They’ll be here soon, by all means,” Yamazaki said, “And they’re probably very different from what you remember.”

The first mention of his family was enough for Shuichi to stiffen. Maybe it had been the exhaustion speaking, or the relative independence he’d had for the past few weeks, but he’d been preoccupied with thoughts entirely unrelated to his family, and their presence. He hadn’t wanted to think about a mother and father who didn’t care, who lived across the sea in hopes of pursuing their career, not wanting to see their disappointment of a son. And thinking about his aunt and uncle _hurt_. More than anything else, they were people he had so gravely missed, and coming to the realization that they probably didn’t exist wasn’t a pastime he particularly wanted to partake in.

But. The few thoughts that had broken through his mind, the ones relating to his family, had been useless--memories that had existed before the game had ended, memories of longing for people he could rely on considering the harsh reality of the game. Nothing from after that sixth trial, nothing beyond the desperate thoughts that so afflicted him afterwards. He hadn’t thought about them since then because there was so little time to, when he had to process the end of his world as he had known it.

But now, facing Yamazaki, he was hit full-force with the brunt of his words, with the knowledge that he had a _real_ family, a family of whom he had no memory of. It was a scary thought. He let his head fall back against the pillows of his cot simply at the realization, his throat suddenly dry.

And he’d meet them in a few days?

Maybe tomorrow, maybe later, but the family that had given birth to him, had raised him ( _not him, he was an intruder in a monster’s body, they had raised a monster_ ), had seen him grow for seventeen years, and he’d not remember them at all? He couldn’t imagine it.

Yamazaki watched Shuichi’s reactions with something akin to...pity, maybe. Not quite sympathy or concern. But pity felt the correct word, and Shuichi was forcefully reminded of his own feelings towards Ouma, the ones he’d dwelled on earlier. Still, he didn’t quite...mind the pity. It felt uncomfortable, but Shuichi was much more involved in the whirlwind of emotions that stormed within him.

“I...what are they like?” Shuichi eventually asked, his voice a mere croak. 

He wanted to know, and yet, at the same time, he really didn’t. It was more like he _had_ to know if he was being honest. Because if he didn’t ask, it would eat away at him, the fear and the curiosity and their presence in the back of his head eating away at him uncomfortably. So, while he refused to look at Yamazaki, instead staring at the darkened ceiling: the light fixtures that were currently turned off and leaving the room only lit up by the cityscape outside.

Yamazaki took a second to speak, though Shuichi could hear his sigh and the removal of his glasses--them being carefully nestled on his bedside, next to the basket he refused to look at and the flowers that reminded him of blood. 

“They live near Osaka,” is what Yamazaki said, “Your mother, from what little I’ve garnered, is a soft spoken lady. She’s a housewife. Your father is a salesman. I’ve been on the phone with him every once in a while--a nice guy. Worried about you.”

His parents...worried about him? It was hard to even associate the cold, bitter relationships of the parents in his memory with this description. It frustrated him to no end--this control his memories had over him. How impossible they made it to view the world in any other way. But still, the thought of his parents, even if they were practically like strangers to him now, actually finding it in their hearts to be concerned over him?

It hurt. Whether in a good or bad way, Shuichi couldn’t be sure. All he knew for certain was that his eyes stung, and dammit, he didn’t want to cry. He’d cried enough tears to make an ocean, and Shuichi didn’t want to make more.

“There’s more,” Yamazaki said, placing a hand awkwardly on Shuichi’s shoulder. Shuichi still didn’t look at him--now embarrassed by the fervent blinking of his eyes to keep the tears at bay. However, Yamazaki didn’t offer any further comfort, simply delving into his next choice of words. “You have a brother. Two years younger. From what little I’ve gathered, the two of you were quite close.”

Shuichi’s heart stuttered, freezing in his chest. It was much like it had turned to ice and frozen within his ribcage at the mention of it. His mouth opened and closed a few times.

“I had a what?” He eventually stuttered out, the sting in his eyes only growing worse. He’d rub at them, but the effort it would take to lift his arms properly and do such a thing was too much. Instead he hoped that his rapid blinking would hold it back--something that failed when he felt something warm and wet slipping down his cheeks.

“Have,” Yamazaki corrected, “His name is Tomio Saihara. He shares a similar enjoyment of Danganronpa.”

“Shared,” Shuichi said in much the same way Yamazaki had, though his mind was reeling under the implications, reeling under the fact that _he had a brother_. A brother. It felt impossible to wrap his mind around, as someone who’d been an only-child for as long as he could remember within the confines of his own false memory.

Tomio. It felt strange to him, none of the familiarity that his false, fictional family seemed to hold. Hearing it attached to his own surname felt wrong, almost, in a sense, and Shuichi couldn’t imagine ever meeting his brother. Two years younger. What was he like?

Shuichi wasn’t sure he wanted to know, if it meant that he was just as Danganronpa-enthused, or anything like his previous self. It would be better if he didn’t, if that was the case.

Still. The word brother felt so _strange_ on his tongue, in his mind, applied to himself. He had never thought himself to be a brother. And he doubted he’d be a very good one, considering the way his heart grew frantic at just the thought of the faceless Tomio in his mind, at the inability to comprehend his presence.

“They’ll be here either tomorrow or the day after,” Yamazaki said, “Though as a treat, I’ll allow you to see Harukawa-san and Yumeno-san, if they are in a proper state of mind. I understand that...it’ll probably be hard for you to see your family again.”

 _Again_. A word that tasted odd on his tongue, knowing this wouldn’t be the first time this body laid eyes on them, or this mind, just simply the person inside was exchanged for another, having lost all memory. He’d be meeting his family for the first time, yet in a sense, it would also simply be a reunion.

Just thinking on the topic left his chest feeling tight and uncomfortable, so for now, he dismissed that line of thought, and Tomio’s name, instead trying to focus on the treat promised to him. A treat promised almost like he was a dog getting rewarded for good behavior. Like he was something to be tamed.

Also an unpleasant train of thought, but the promise of Harukawa and Yumeno was there, and that was beyond enough for him to roll on his belly. They wanted a dog, he could be a dog, as long as he could see the two of them again.

He still remembered that walk into the light with them all. With Yumeno’s eyes torn at the broken dome above them, a small hand clutching her hat to her head. Harukawa, her arms crossed, yet still a small, sad smile decorating her features at the promise of the outside world. Of the belief in forming their own futures.

Had they woken up today too? And if so...were they really allowed to see each other so early? Not that Shuichi was complaining if they were. He wanted to see them again…

“I’d like that,” Shuichi finally said, albeit uncertainly.

And Yamazaki smiled. It was a smile that didn’t touch his eyes, yet still was there all the same. He rose from his chair, pressing the clipboard against his chest, and let out a soft sigh.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “This will be tough for you. Seeing the others is something to make it better, no?”

Not wrong. But still, hearing it come from Yamazaki’s lips left him feeling...powerless. As if he were merely playing a part in Danganronpa’s scheme, his emotions a whirlwind of emotions that they controlled.

He hated it.

Still, Yamazaki crossed the room in several long strides, standing in the doorway for only a mere moment before he was gone. Shuichi was not given a chance to protest. Or a reason to. Considering how true the words were for him, he didn’t think he had it in him to complain, even if he hated it.

Still. Seeing Yumeno and Harukawa again…

It would be a blessing in a way. And despite everything else he could feel within him, despite everything else he’d bear witness to or be part of in the coming weeks, despite the arrival of a family who he didn’t know, Shuichi could find himself relying on them. 

It was enough. It had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, while I had planned the treatment route for Shuichi since the beginning, and the various groups he'd be with, as well as seeing Himiko and Maki again earlier, I saw it in a different fic. I think, while both my fic and the other one I'm talking about are postgame, the premise will be different enough that no one minds...But it was kind of part of my plot so I didn't want to rework it
> 
> On a separate note, I finally finished this chapter!!! It took a while, not gonna lie, but I finally managed it! It's mostly a filler chapter anyway, but it was kind of necessary, so I hope it was somewhat entertaining!


	3. Reboot 1.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, I'm kind of nervous about this chapter: partially because, while I know this concept is essential to my story, I'm not sure how Shuichi's family is going to be received. But it's here! It took forever to write this one, so I hope everyone enjoys!

_“When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.”_  
\- Margaret Atwood

* * *

#### 

**Reboot 1.2**

* * *

The day in which Shuichi would meet his family, unfortunately, arrived sooner than he’d anticipated. In fact, not even twenty-four hours after Yamazaki had met with him and reminded Shuichi of their existence, he was informed of their arrival. Not even a full twenty-four hours.

It was not nearly enough time to prepare: emotionally or otherwise. Shuichi counted each breath he took on his fingers, trying to find some measure of sanity to hold before they officially were here: in his room, within touching, seeing distance. Sanity was something that was hard to grasp in this moment, where all he could feel was the way his heart beat so erratically against the side of his ribcage. It was stupid--a stupid emotion, since he knew he couldn’t _physically_ get out of doing this. He had no choice: he’d be expected to meet them at some point or another, and so doing it now should really not be much of a surprise.

Feelings, Shuichi had long since learned, did not abide by logic, no matter how often he told himself that such emotions were useless. And so his heart did not still, and his anxiety did not cease in its persistence. 

Yamazaki was getting them, or at least, that’s what he’d told Shuichi. He’d made sure to explain what was going to happen in a manner that made Shuichi feel almost like a kid again, tiny in his presence. It was a condescending, almost patronizing tone, but Shuichi was aware of where it came from. Yamazaki, after all, must have known how hard this would be. How hard this was going to be. Shuichi himself still hadn’t fully processed what was happening, and so, having the clear cut-out instructions for it made things easier.

The steps were simple.

One: Yamazaki was going to greet them after they’d signed in at the lobby. Here, Shuichi assumed, polite, and likely unappreciated pleasantries would be exchanged. Two: Information would be offered to his family, the treatment plan that Shuichi had already been informed of, and so hated the name of. And thirdly, they’d come up here to see Shuichi again after the game.

Step three, naturally, was what Shuichi found himself worried over.

Worried. Heh--such a small word that couldn’t even begin to cover just how anxiety-ridden this meeting was making him. Any minute now, step two would be complete, and the door would open to reveal his doom. Dramatic maybe, but...it was true.

He missed his family.

That was something he never thought he’d say. But he did. The family of his memories taunted him, now that he knew they’d never existed. There was his Uncle, who had inspired him, had allowed him to grow so much, had taught him how to become a detective and never stopped believing in him, even when Shuichi had long since lost belief in himself. His Aunt had been a kind lady, stern, but so loving. She had been there to pick him up whenever he fell down.

And his parents…

None of them were real. None of them _existed_ in the first place. Shirogane had placed each fucking memory into his head, and he was left with nothing beyond memories of fake people, and the need to see them again.

The door handle turned.

Naturally, all thoughts came to a screeching halt when the door opened to reveal a tired Yamazaki and three strangers behind him. Strangers that shared a resemblance to him that was almost terrifying to face, knowing that they should be more. They all had the same color of hair. It shouldn’t have been a shock--they were, family, after all. But still, Shuichi felt himself so strangely confused at the similarities presented in these people of whom he had no memory of. The shape of his mother’s eyes. His father’s nose. It was all so strange, to look upon, and to realize that he was a creation of them. That he was their son, when his own memory claimed otherwise, when the image of “Mom” and “Dad” only gave the absent, yet still clear in his mind, parents of Shirogane’s creation.

He never thought he’d miss them. He’d been so mad at them for what had happened between them, and yet now, all he wanted was to be able to cry into his fake-mother’s arms again.

His “real-mother,” or at least, the woman Shuichi assumed to be her, was smaller than the mother of his memories. Her face was rounder, softer almost. And her lip was quivering, almost as if she were about to burst into tears on the spot--tears he assumed she was holding back for his sake. Or perhaps for her own. 

There was a tall man beside her, a man Shuichi was—after a brief cursory look that allowed him to take in the man’s appearance—quick to place as his father. He was only slightly more composed than his mother—eyed still watering.

The person that drew Shuichi’s attention the most was a boy: only mere centimeters shorter than Shuichi would be if they were to stand side by side. Yet still, he seemed imposing, bangs falling easily in his face, and eyes set intensely to focus on Shuichi’s own. The stare was anything but friendly, and Shuichi was almost inclined to cower at it.

However. He’d been through so much shit. He wasn’t going to cower at some teenage boy, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

His “fake-father” had always used to send postcards from America, Shuichi remembered. They had stopped after the fight, but Shuichi had always treasured those postcards. He wished he had them now. He wished he could hold them and close his eyes and believe in miracles: miracles like fiction becoming reality.

He didn’t express that, though, simply looking between his mother and his father and his brother. Tomio, was the name, if Shuichi was correct. And he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he _could_ say, at this rate. Hello? I’m your son, but hahaha, I don’t remember you--which you and I both know but let’s just awkwardly laugh about it together?

There wasn’t anything he could summon from the tip of his tongue, aside from faint breaths that escaped his lips, a tiny exhale of fear, or maybe just anxiety. The breath felt cold, as it finally left. Perhaps it was his soul exiting his body. He let himself imagine that for a second before he realized that pretending like that only made him think of Ouma, which was less than ideal as of right now. He didn’t need more confusion and hurt to add on top of what he already felt. So he stopped pretending and he looked them in the eyes.

“Shu…” his mother was the first to speak. Her voice was different then what he’d expected--it was fuller, and anything but familiar. Yet still, it hurt to hear, it hurt to hear the pain and grief that laid within it. “Shuichi, baby, you’re awake…”

Vaguely, Shuichi found it in him to nod. He wasn’t quite sure where he even gathered the energy to do it, yet still, he did, heart stuttering in his chest. The acknowledgment of her words only made his heart tighten further. He didn’t drop his gaze. He wasn’t sure he could look up ever again if he did, if he could bear to see their eyes, the hurt in them if he so much as blinked.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” he said, voice hoarse, and it felt _strange_ to say it to people who he didn’t know.

His mother shook her head, taking a single step closer to him. Each of her breaths sounded heavy and wet, and Shuichi could see how hard she was trying to keep herself together. She was hardly succeeding, but Shuichi didn’t call her out on it. She...she needed this. She needed to be able to rely on that, and Shuichi needed this to go as smoothly as possible because even the thought of this going _horribly, utterly wrong_ terrified him to no end.

“It’s been so long,” His mother said, taking another step forward. Another step closer, edging towards the edges of his comfort zone. He wasn’t sure how he would feel with her within arm’s reach or less, but he didn’t protest it. “I just...I can’t believe you’re awake Shu. I can’t--”

She muffled a sob into her hand, and it was then that the Tomio went to join her--putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a deadpan stare. It was unsympathetic, harsh, and Shuichi flinched even when it wasn’t directed at him. It was the very sort of stare that reminded him of why he wore his hat in the first place: a hat he itched for, desperately.

“Mother,” Tomio said, his words clipped, “He doesn’t remember you. You should probably introduce yourself.”

His words were harsh, cutting. They did little to comfort his mother, as she began to cry harder, pressing her hands up to her eyes in order to hide the tears. Something in Shuichi’s heart began to lurch, and he turned away from them, keeping his eyes downcast at the cot. He watched the detail of the fabric, for no other reason than finding a distraction.

“Shu, baby, you...do you know who I am?” His mother pleaded between tears, and Shuichi flinched. Her world was breaking. He supposed it wasn’t a surprise.

Of course, she’d hurt this way. He couldn’t imagine if his “fake-family” hard forgotten him: he still remembered a couple of Christmasses ago, when they’d flown in from America. He was taken to get presents, gift shopping as it were, and his father ruffled his hair, smiling widely, while his mother surprised him with hugs. They’d gotten hot chocolate at the Christmas Markey, and seen the lights together. Snow dampened the streets around them, chilling the world, and they let out laughs: soft, pure noises that were surreal given the Tragedy that Shuichi remembered so firmly.

So many memories. _Lies._ Even knowing that they had fought, that they hadn’t seen each other since Shuichi had established himself to be such a disappointment, he missed them so much. More than missed them. He needed them.

He wanted his mom and dad.

It was a foolish hope to want them. A foolish dream. And so he pretended. He pretended he didn’t hurt because if he did that, then maybe the feelings would go away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring firmly at the blanket of his cot, “I didn’t mean to forget all of you…”

He didn’t. The previous him had. The previous him had _wanted_ to become fiction, to become a murderer, to _die_. But Shuichi, now? He didn’t want that. Had never wanted that. If he could only never have forgotten--if only this could all be revealed to be a lie like everything else had.

Could he even trust the truth?

“It’s okay, Shu,” His father said, the first words he’d spoken since arriving. Maybe it was because his mother couldn’t now--her sobs were stifled in the palms of her hand, as she hid her face, but they were so evidently there. “We signed off on this too. We knew what we were getting into.”

If the regret in his father’s voice was anything to go by, then they really, _really_ hadn’t. But even then, even with the remorse so heavy in the voice, Shuichi couldn’t help but feel the stirrings of resentment within him. They had chosen this for him--they had let him do this. All for what--some sick fantasy? Even further, Shuichi hated the familiarity of his name on their tongues--even knowing that they gave it to him. The small nickname they called him.

He kept quiet.

Unfortunately, for him, Tomio did not do the same.

“Hey, fucker,” he said, “How does it feel now that you’ve finally done it? Was it just as good as you imagined?”

The words were barbed: like poisoned roses, maybe. And Shuichi winced at them, at the way they seemed to dig into his skin, tearing into the soft flesh. Tomio clearly had no intention of playing it nice, of allowing Shuichi any respite, that much was clear. 

Shuichi dug his fingers into the soft fabric of the cot, closing his eyes and holding them tight. Trying to keep Tomio out, the words out.

_He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t want to face this. He never would be ready for this._

He didn’t want to see this, to hear this. The anxiety that had previously been merely a curl of smoke drifting through his soul seemed to expand like wildfire, consuming his heart and the bones surrounded it, like a cage of fire, perhaps. This aggression, this face of anger that Tomio threw back at him--Shuichi tried to pretend it didn’t exist, to escape the way the fire seemed to lick stubbornly at his sides, and pull him apart.

“Tomio,” his father put a single hand on Tomio’s arm, “Please. He’s been through enough. He’s probably going through a lot right now.”

A lot. What an understatement, really. Every time Shuichi closed his eyes he saw memories of hurt, of pain, of death and everything in between. He saw his fabricated past. He saw blood. So much blood.

If he never saw blood again, Shuichi figured maybe he could be happy. No, not happy. Okay. Fine. Stagnant. Happiness was not something he could imagine ever having again, not really. Of course, he knew it was illogical to think he wouldn’t see blood again, but still. He’d seen far too much violence in his life. So much more than he had ever wanted to.

Tomio, as it seemed, didn’t simmer down. Shuichi could gauge that from the way his fists clenched at his side, at the short-tempered nature Shuichi already felt privy to.

“You think I don’t know that?” Tomio’s words were laced still with the daggers, with the heat of anger that was wrongfully placed on Shuichi of all people. “Fuck off, Dad. He chose to do this. And I want to know. If this was just as great as he imagined. If it was worth _forgetting us_ for.”

Oh.

It made sense, now. Justified anger. Shuichi still couldn’t help but shrivel in it, feel something break at the sound of hurt within Tomio’s voice. Because…

He hadn’t chosen this. Someone else had, someone else who had inhabited this body, and lashing out at Shuichi resulted in nothing. Tomio just didn’t seem to understand that. His anger needed someone to aim at, and Shuichi was an easy target.

“You want to know?” Shuichi whispered, “If it was worth it?”

Worth it? The fire that seemed to engulf his heart and ribs grew in intensity, this time the intensity not made entirely out of anxiety, of fear, but also of anger. It was the same anger he felt when he had to confront Shirogane, though it was smaller than that anger, and it wasn’t quite as emotional. But it was of the same breed.

And he met Tomio’s eyes in a defiant challenge.

“Of course it fucking wasn’t,” Shuichi said, “I don’t understand what kind of monster would go into a game like that. Would willingly let their friends die, try to _kill_ their friends. How could that be worth it? Why would I want that?”

He had called himself a monster--or at least, the self that Tomio and his parents had known. And he hoped it hurt, irrationally, because he hurt so fucking much and Tomio seemed so determined to remind Shuichi of that pain. Worth it? Danganronpa would never be worth it. What he went through would never be worth it. And the fact that Tomio even had to ask that lit something inside him, something angry and fierce and determined.

So Shuichi didn’t stop there. “And just because you’re fucking angry at me doesn’t mean that you have any right to do this! To treat me this way! I’m sorry I’m not the me you remember, I’m sorry that you're hurt, but don’t ever try to use that game against me. It’s not yours to use.”

It was anything but Tomio’s to use--that game was Shuichi’s trauma to bear. Someone who hadn’t even been part of that...they couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain from it. And they had no right to use it against him.

Tomio didn’t seem to expect the outburst, which Shuichi had to count as a win. His eyes bloated wide, lips falling open just slightly so that he gaped at Shuichi, and for a moment, everyone was silent. His mother and father likely were just as shocked, but Shuichi didn’t look at them. He held his gaze steady at Tomio. Perhaps if he had the energy to move his arms, he’d point in the manner he did during the trials, though now knowing that it was just a _protagonist_ thing for Danganronpa made the motion feel wrong.

A second. Two. Silence pervaded. And then, eventually, it was broken. Surprisingly, the one to do so was not Tomio, who still seemed to fumble for any manner of response, failing to gather his own thoughts. Nor was it Shuichi himself. No, the one who spoke was his mother--wiping slightly at her eyes, but holding her hands up in a placating manner, stepping between the two of them.

“Sweetie, wouldn’t this conversation best be saved for later?” These words were directed at Tomio, “After all, we should just be glad that Shu is awake.”

Tomio didn’t respond for a moment. He didn’t tear his eyes away from Shuichi’s, and Shuichi could see the lit sparks of anger seem to dwell in them for a moment. It seemed that Tomio’s eyes promised that this wasn’t over, before he looked down at their mother.

“Fine. Later,” Tomio said, the words clipped and short in a way that made their mother seem to deflate a little, though she seemed to accept it in some measure. She was probably used to it. Shuichi couldn’t imagine it: growing up with Tomio. He wasn’t sure how she handled it, or how he had handled it himself.

That same restless anger that had built in him dissipated for a moment, if only to simmer quietly within himself. It was an anger that Shuichi knew would not leave him, an anger that stirred quietly within his soul, an anger that was like a monster waiting to burst. But for now, at least, it slept. It dwindled. It fell. And Shuichi let his head drop, not ashamed of what he had said, but perhaps regretting it a little. It was only natural to regret it--he didn’t know these people, and yet he still let his emotions control him.

“Shu,” his father said, breaking him from his thoughts, “No matter if you can’t remember us...we love you. Alright?”

That voice.

It was pleading, and it broke on the word remember, as if his father were fighting off tears. He probably was, given it all. And Shuichi felt like a parasite in their presence, a parasite that remained hideous and ugly and monstrous in every regard.

A parasite that fed off love that didn’t belong to him, that belonged to someone else.

“Okay,” he whispered, and he thought the word must have stung worse than anything else he could have said. No I love you back. How could he offer something like that to someone he didn’t even know? The answer was, simply put, that he couldn’t. And he couldn’t be expected to.

He was sure it still hurt, though.

He missed his fake-mother and fake-father. His mother used to hug him back before she departed to America, smelling of the expensive rose perfume she so loved. His father had clapped a hand on his shoulder, smiling widely, and told him to keep his head up. His father called him everyday, just talking. Almost as if he was trying to put everything they experienced an ocean away into his words, anything he couldn’t fit into the postcards, as if Shuichi could be there with him.

He remembered the screaming and the tears, the way his voice had caught in his throat in the last fight. The fight that had ended it all. He remembered the way their eyes had burned with betrayal and upset. The way he’d told them to go away and never come back. There had been no hug goodbye after that, and no phone calls.

He...he wanted to hug his mother one last time. To smell her perfume, the perfume that would always remind him of home. He wanted to hug his mother and father and apologize and just be able to see them again. He’d never gotten to apologize. And now he never would.

Damnit. 

_Why couldn’t he erase these stupid fake memories?_

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, and this time, it wasn’t even directed at the real, alive people surrounding him. It was directed at the ghost of a family that didn’t exist, a ghost that if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine still standing around him.

“It’s okay,” his real-mother said, soft and brokenly, “It’s okay.”

Shuichi didn’t bother to correct her. It didn’t matter if she thought the words were for her, because really, it wasn’t like those who Shuichi wanted to say it to could hear.

His hands were shaking. Soft tremors that he hadn’t even noticed until this moment. But they were, nonetheless, betraying the feelings he had wanted to deny he felt. Wanted to, but wouldn’t deny. Still, he hadn’t wanted his emotions to express themselves physically, in the way he shook

“Yeah. We know it’s not your fault, Shu. Just...try to get better okay?” his father said, gentle.

Everyone in the room could hear the words not said, the ones that seemed desperate to push themselves off of his father’s tongue. The hidden question. Try to get better. Try to _remember._ They were words that seemed content to scream in the absence of their physical presence, a desperate, irrational hope from his parents. And yet, Shuichi knew it wasn’t possible. Whoever he’d been before was gone. Rightfully so.

It wasn’t possible. And he didn’t _want_ to remember, even if he could. He didn’t want to have memories of how he used to be, that broken, deranged person that had chosen to enter the game. And even if these people, these strangers wanted him to be that person…

Well. Shuichi would always refuse.

“Okay,” he said anyway, since he couldn’t exactly refute the spoken concept of getting better. And besides, what else could he say? “I’ll try.”

Tomio scoffed and looked away. Shuichi closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t see.

* * *

“What’s your name?”

“...Shuichi Saihara.”

“Nice to meet you Saihara-kun. I’m Minato Okita. I’m here to help.”

“,,,”

“You don’t have to say much to begin. We can start small. Simple things to get to know each other, okay?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, Saihara-kun. How are you doing today?”

“Not great.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“That’s fine. You aren’t going to be pressured to speak when you don’t want to. Is it alright if I ask another question?”

A shrug here. “I guess.”

“Are you excited to see your classmates?”

“I...I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid…I’m glad they’re alive…”

“Nothing you have to say is stupid.”

“It’s...it is what it is.”

* * *

A week. That was how long it took, after the painful reunion with his family for Shuichi Saihara to see the other survivors. Survivors was a choice word, one he didn’t like the sound of, but it was nonetheless what he, Yumeno, and Harukawa had been dubbed among the hospital staff. He heard whispers of their conditions: enough for him to gather that Harukawa had woken up a day or so after him, and that Yumeno had taken longer.

Still. A week passed, slowly.

It was hard to keep track when boredom seemed to remain the only common symptom of his days. Shuichi would spend his mornings, after a carefully moderated breakfast, working on the muscles in his legs and arms--training his weak body to finally be able to complete tasks it used to handle on its own.

Still, Shuichi hadn’t been quite prepared for how _frustrating_ it was. More than anything else, his own body’s lack of cooperation plagued him, and that provided the highest measure of disdain for himself: an emotion that welled and came in buckets. He still didn’t look at the wilting flowers of blood on his bedside, nor did he find any comfort in the gift basket he’d been so rewarded.

Afternoons consisted of sitting in his tired, aching body. Sometimes he lamented on the nights of training he used to have with Momota and Harukawa, a pastime he missed. But such lamentations only pulled Shuichi deeper into the realm of unpleasant memories, so most often, he worked on his own to further his body’s strength, as well as slept. Sleep had become his most common pastime--maybe because there was nothing else to do.

Nothing else but wait. Wait, and, remember things he had hardly wanted to remember. To shake with panic alone in the night when no one was there, to hear Monokuma’s laugh when there was no sound, to feel the brush of Shirogane’s fingers against his cheek tauntingly even when she was hospital rooms away.

Mere rooms away. Not even on a different floor. Perhaps that was why her presence seemed to so plight him.

He had a lot of opinions, a lot of thoughts about Shirogane. There was confusion, there was hurt, betrayal. She had been a friend of his, and even now, sometimes it was hard to associate the Shirogane that had survived so far with him to the one in the final trial. And yet, first and foremost, he felt hatred.

Hatred was such an ugly emotion. Shuichi had never really felt raw hatred the way he did now, but he couldn’t deny that what he felt was indeed hatred. Hatred and...and fear. Fear because if Shirogane, who he’d considered a friend, could do something so terrible, could drive everyone to kill each other, than she had been the cause for all the torment and lies in Shuichi’s life, she was responsible for it all--and he had smiled at her, had considered her a good person, someone he could trust.

What would stop others from betraying him?

It was an unproductive line of thought. Despite the fact that betrayal could occur again, the lingering whisper of doubt in his friends only fueled his belief in them. Because...he had to believe in the others. He had to, for his sake, and for theirs.

He didn’t know if he could survive if he let this paranoid suffocate him. If he couldn’t rely on them.

And so a week passed. A week spent much like this, between therapy and thoughts of the others, and Shirogane’s fingers caressing his cheek and Monokuma’s laugh, and sometimes, when he felt most alone, a whiff of rose perfume that only made him start to sob into his pillows.

A week passed and Shuichi was guided, carefully, down the halls of the hospital--his own legs finally able to support him, though they were far weaker than they had used to be. A nurse remained at his side, providing her support in case he needed it: but he managed without, well enough, even if it stole his breath from him and he knew he’d feel sore tomorrow.

After all, despite the way it hurt to walk, despite the way his legs shook, Shuichi could say with confidence that it was worth it. To be even remotely better, able to take care of himself.

The walls were white and pasty, and the halls reeked of chemicals. A typical smell of a hospital, really, nothing special there. Shuichi had gotten far too used to the smell of hospital, recently, to the point where he could no longer distinguish what was different about it to the smell of the outdoors.

That wasn’t what really mattered though--Shuichi counted the doors as he walked past. From his room, he coulded one, two, three doors they passed. They walked slowly, so that Shuichi could handle the pace. But eventually, they stopped at the fifth door, and the nurse covered the handle with an open palm, pursing her lips.

“Just so you know,” she said, delicately, “Harukawa-chan isn’t here yet, but Yumeno-chan is behind this door. She isn’t...she isn’t exactly as…”

The nurse huffed an irate breath, clearly unsure of what to say. Shuichi, first and foremost, felt concern, apprehension.

“Is she okay?” he asked. His voice was stronger than it used to be--like his legs, it had taken some time, but it had been trained, and Shuichi was strangely proud of how far he’d come. In both words and movement, he had gotten better.

The nurse didn’t respond immediately, letting out another huff and bringing her brows together. She shook her head.

“It’s not that she’s not okay, but she’s not exactly…” the nurse sighed, “You’ll see. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you, though.”

She pushed the door open. It was almost painfully slow, the way it swung open, but Shuichi could see the bed from the doorway. He could see the white flooring and walls, the same set up of the bed, a woman beside the cot--presumably a doctor.

And finally, he saw Yumeno.

Her eyes widened. “S-Saihara?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fun fact: Initially the meeting between Himiko and Maki was part of this chapter_
> 
> But due to several reasons, I decided to make the next chapter dedicated to them. These reasons largely extended from: this chapter took long enough as it is, and that it hit the same length as my other chapters so it was fine on its own. I'm trying to remain consistent with chapter size, so thus, I decided a cliffhanger would be for the best.


	4. Reboot 1.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh...yeah, this was late. Life. I don't have an excuse, I literally did nothing, including my schoolwork.

_“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”_  
― Lois Lowry, The Giver  


* * *

#### 

**Reboot 1.3**

* * *

“Saihara!” Yumeno said, this time louder. She wasn’t looking well, per se, considering the pale pallor to her skin, her hair sticking in all directions. There was a static quality to it, though considering the nest of knots and tangles that the right side of her hair was, Shuichi assumed she had been sleeping minutes before. It was this observation that helped him understand the healthier aspects of her appearance: because despite her thin, malnutritioned body, and the sunken look to her cheeks, her eyes were without bags and fully comprehensive. It would appear that even now, Yumeno didn’t skip any sleep. Though that wasn’t too much of a surprise--it was one thing Shuichi could count on, the way Yumeno clung so fervently to her tiredness.

It was with this knowledge that Shuichi could understand the enthusiastic weight of his name in her mouth. Though she was hardly done there--her eyes had widened a certain degree, until they had grown to disproportionate amounts, and her next few words were fevered and rushed. “You’re here! You’re alive!”

And, well…

Shuichi wouldn’t be lying if he said it wasn’t quite what he expected. He blinked, momentarily, holding Yumeno’s gaze. His own mind was still heavily stuck on the fact that she was here: in front of him. Perhaps not as healthy as she had been the last time he’d seen her, yet still, the point stood. He’d expected a lot of things upon seeing her again: maybe tears welling up in her eyes, maybe a distracted, tired noise as she rubbed at her ear and said she brought everyone back with her magic. Or maybe something worse. He could remember the nurse’s words clearly--something was going on with Yumeno.

However, he and Yumeno had survived--they had beaten the odds of the game they were forced to play, had even gambled against Kiibo’s destructive power and survived. Of course, he was alive, yet Yumeno seemed surprised at that. His heart sunk in his chest for a moment, whether of fear or something else, he wasn’t sure. And even if they had died, the simulation had guaranteed his survival.

He didn’t respond immediately, torn slightly at what to say. Still, he managed a small smile: because regardless of his own uncertainty, seeing Yumeno again eased something within him. She was safe, and here, and lacking the familiar weight of her hat, but still the Yumeno he had known.

“Yeah?” Shuichi eventually said, sitting in one of the chairs by Yumeno’s bedside. Sitting down was a relief, considering how tired his legs had gotten. Walking was a feat of progress, and while Shuichi was proud of what he had accomplished, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand on his own. Someday he’d get there again, that much, Shuichi believed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Was he anxious to hear her answer? The only truthful answer would be yes, though granted, seeing her again seemed to allow his heart to swell, in a manner that Shuichi could only describe as relief. And despite the bewilderment clearly displayed on his face, and within words, Shuichi could honestly say the smile that crossed his face was genuine. Small, perhaps. Yet still.

Yumeno had always been something important and bright within the game. It wasn’t so much optimism--optimism would be a stretch for someone of Yumeno’s caliber, considering what she’d faced. No, it was something else entirely. Yumeno was a lesson on perseverance in all cases, on the determination. Despite the odds pitting themselves against her, she had survived. She had grown. And even in her lowest moments, when she wanted nothing more but to let the game end her, she persevered.

She was bright, naive, childish. She was loud and tired and uncertain. Her intelligence, while Shuichi cared a lot about her, wasn’t incredibly high. But nonetheless, she was someone so important to him. She was his _friend_ \--and despite what Akamatsu and the others had said, Shuichi wasn’t sure he could call the entire class that. But after going through so much together, after they had both struggled and managed to survive, Shuichi could honestly say he considered Yumeno someone he could trust.

Someone he had missed so badly in the last week. Ever since he’d woken up, he’d missed something about her presence, and Harukawa, and all he’d wanted to do was be able to see them again. Because they meant so much to him. And to see them again, in the flesh, real and alive and in front of him again, felt only right.

He hated being separated from them. 

Yumeno’s answer didn’t take as long as he’d expected, given the long, drawn out look she gave him. After a brief pause, she directed her gaze at the stern-looking woman in the corner of the room. Yumeno’s doctor, if Shuichi’s guess was right. Her gaze hardened, though not incredibly so, just enough for Shuichi to know irritation was bubbling in them.

“She,” Yumeno started, in a flamboyant manner, “She kept telling me that Dangan...that what we went through was just a simulation. I almost believed her, but dead people can’t come back to life, you know? So it only made sense that she was lying--that she killed you and Harukawa, and was planning on killing me next!”

Shuichi blinked.

Granted, it was a very Yumeno-like response, but still Shuichi had not imagined something like it to be her first though. She always did seem to have her head in the clouds--considering her firm believe that her own talents were real magic and the like. And it wasn’t that he was too surprised, just taken aback. It was unexpected, in simple terms.

“You thought,” Shuichi began slowly, letting the words linger on his tongue for a moment. He glanced between Yumeno’s expectant gaze, and that of the doctor’s rather irate expression. He gathered that this had been a long-lasting tension between the two of them, though long-lasting might be pushing it considering how Yumeno had apparently been awake for less than a week. “You thought that Harukawa-san and I had been killed?”

Briefly, he wondered if they actually had died. If Yumeno was truly as alone as she thought. He shivered, not liking such happenings of his mind, of the implications.

Yumeno seemed unaware of such thoughts in his mind, so ever present. She pouted a little, her lower lip sticking out in a rather childish manner. Her hands reached for something that wasn’t there--likely the familiar brim of her hat. A gesture of embarrassment, maybe, for being wrong.

“It was a reasonable deduction,” Yumeno affirmed, and Shuichi felt that disagreement would be toeing at an invisible boundary that Yumeno didn’t want crossed. It was a boundary that Shuichi would respect--there was no point to not do so, and to be perfectly honest, Shuichi was just relieved to see her again. Even without Harukawa here--yet--Shuichi felt so much lighter, his heart losing some of the tension that seemed to be so permanent before.

“I...why would they try to trick you if they could just kill you?” Shuichi asked, deciding if nothing else, to let Yumeno decide on her own. Not directly combatting her point, but still, Shuichi supposed his blunt attitude was more forthcoming than his polite mannerisms. Yumeno blinked sleepily at him. She opened her mouth to respond, then after a moment, shut it again. The process was repeated a few times until she eventually rubbed at her eyes.

“Too much work,” she murmured, “To think.”

It was another very Yumeno-like response. Not surprising--Shuichi had to press a tentative hand over his mouth, stifling the small, almost imperceptible laugh that escaped. So small. But it was a start. How long had it been since Shuichi had last laughed?

Too long.

Still, the fact that Yumeno even thought that implied something less merry. He supposed this was further evidence that Yumeno had not taken the virtual reality aspect of their situation all that well. Not that he had expected her too--it wasn’t that he didn’t have faith in her, but he had discovered it on his own, had deduced it. It hadn’t shocked him because he’d been practically handed the evidence to figure it out. Yumeno had to be told--without proof, without any reason to believe, and showed that her life was even more of a lie than she had already been aware of.

If she couldn’t accept that from her doctor, from countless nurses, if she had been so steadfast not to believe it, why would anything he said change anything?

But she believed in him.

She had chosen him, to believe in his deductions, in his truths, in his choice, and in his ultimate decision to end the game. Yumeno, time and time again, had placed her belief in him. And Shuichi wasn’t sure why that hurt so much: not in a bad way per se, but like an open, gaping wound in his chest. If she believed in him, Shuichi had to believe she would now.

Because if she believed in him, he would believe in her too.

“Yumeno-san. Your doctor, she wasn’t...lying to you. It might be hard to believe. I still can’t believe it myself,” Shuichi looked down at his lap, “But what we went through. It was all some virtual reality--a simulation. None of it was real.”

None of it was real.

Yet it was all too real. Real in the way that it hung on his heart, real in the way it hung like an oppressive cloud around the two of them. They were broken specimens, broken from a game they’d been forced to play.

Unwanted, Momota’s relay of Ouma’s last message played in his head. A game you’re forced to play isn’t fun, after all.

“I saw her,” Shuichi said, closing his eyes, “Akamatsu-san. She was real. I didn’t believe it at first but...they’re alive. All of them. They’re alive.”

He closed his eyes. And in order, once again, they flashed behind closed eyelids. Rantaro Amami. Kaede Akamatsu. Ryoma Hoshi. Kirumi Tojo. Angie Yonaga, Tenko Chabashira, Korekiyo Shinguji, Miu Iruma, Gonta Gokuhara--

Kokichi Ouma. _Kaito Momota._ Kiibo.

And then, her.

“They are alive,” a voice repeated. A girl’s voice, one lacking emotion or tone, one that Shuichi had not been previously aware of. His eyes snapped open--and he glanced up to meet the tired stare of Harukawa.

When she had entered the room, Shuichi didn’t know. But he nodded to Harukawa. Because there were no other words to say: despite the emotions that Shuichi knew to be whirling inside them all, the desperation, the fear, the anger, the sadness, the grief, the _relief_ \--despite it all, there were no words that better communicated their thoughts. Simply the fact that they were alive. It was all they could say properly.

Because if nothing else, that was all that mattered.

Yumeno, he noticed, hadn’t responded. He looked at her--there had long since been the point of realization, and her face had lost several shades--paling to an almost entirely white slate. Like paper. Or like the dead. It was not a pleasant thought, anything but, and Shuichi had to look away.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, right Saihara?” Yumeno asked, her voice small. Impossibly small. Almost like she wanted to both deny his words and accept them, yet the waver in her voice displayed her lack of confidence. She wasn’t outright denying it, though. Her belief in him had triumphed.

His heart hurt more. Harukawa sat beside him, near Yumeno’s bedside. Without thinking, he rested his head on her shoulder--eyes closing. She smelled like lemons. She smelled like safety and friendship and family.

He’d lied before. To everyone. He’d lied to his classmates, he’d lied to his closest friends, he’d lied to his family--both the real and the fake. Never to himself, though. The truth hurt. It cut. And it remained deep within his mind, rooted there at all times. The truth was the one thing he couldn’t hide from: his savior and his foe at once.

But right now? He didn’t know whether he wanted it to be a lie or not. Whether he wanted to laugh or scream.

“No,” he eventually whispered, “I’m not lying. Not now. Not about this.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her face did not regain it’s healthy flush, still pale with nervousness. 

“Then is it true? That...that it was all just a simulation?”

Her voice was frantic here. She understood, but she was scared. Scared to admit it. To admit that it was real. Shuichi could see it behind her eyes, the way they seemed to waver under the uncertainty. So she reaffirmed and reaffirmed and reaffirmed.

And Shuichi obliged. He let her. Because she needed it.

Because they both needed it, perhaps.

He let out a shaky, wet breath, and Harukawa pulled him closer with her arm. She didn’t look at him or provide choice comforts. She simply held him in a simple half hug, letting him try not to cry into her shoulder. Maybe her own eyes were wet. Shuichi doubted it though. Harukawa wasn’t the type to cry. Not in front of others. Maybe not even in front of herself.

“It’s true,” Harukawa answered this time, “There is no reason it wouldn’t be. They’re alive...Chabashira, and Yonaga will be there for you. Kaito--”

She cut off there, breath hitching.

Silence hung in the air for a long moment. Maybe they were suffering under the weight of the world, the world that had tossed them aside and allowed this. Or perhaps, they were merely destined to lack happiness.

Of course they were happy that the others were alive. Of course they were. Shuichi wouldn’t trade their lives for anything, and to know that they had survived it all was perhaps the only thing in Shuichi’s life that would amount to anything. The fact that he had not condemned them all to death. That he had not killed so many of his classmates in the desperate game of staying alive.

But they were alive. And it was hard to believe. And it hurt because Shuichi saw them die. And it hurt because Harukawa saw them die. And Yumeno. It hurt because Shuichi had thought he’d lost them and now he wanted nothing more than to give Momota a hug and get lost in that warmth, or to be able to tell Akamatsu that he’d tried so hard to be her legacy, to keep her wish from dying.

No.

Kaito. Not Momota. Despite their fight, despite Kaito’s death, Shuichi still needed him. He needed his best friend.

And Harukawa needed the person she fell in love with.

“I need to apologize,” Yumeno eventually said, “To Tenko...I never got to apologize…”

She was sniffling. Her eyes glistened with tears, and she rubbed at them hastily, looking all too small in her simple hospital gown. Shuichi felt cold in his own, truthfully. Vulnerable.

Yet he could relate to Yumeno. There were so many people that he needed to apologize to. Akamatsu. All the blackened of whom he had sent to their deaths. The victims who he failed. Kaito.

Only a few were exempt.

Shirogane did not deserve his apology. Nor his forgiveness.

“We’ll see them again,” Harukawa said, and then she held her head high, “And we’ll have each other. I hope. You’re both alright...I was worried about the two of you.”

Shuichi pulled away from Harukawa after her words: not because they didn’t resonate within him, or as a rejection. But rather, he wanted to face her properly, her and Yumeno both.

Not well, was the answer to her question, but Shuichi didn’t say that. He didn’t want to worry Harukawa, though he couldn’t deny how good it was to see her. She looked healthier than he had expected: not quite to the extent she had in the game, yet still, more than he and Himiko. There was a flush to her skin, and Shuichi had to wonder if she had truly woken up after him.

Everyone recovered differently, he supposed. He wasn’t too surprised that Harukawa was coming along like so. She was, after all, Harukawa-san. Someone who was reliable and strong. 

Shuichi wondered how she took the news.

“I could say the same about you,” Shuichi said, soft, “I hope you’ve been okay?”

She looked at him. It was in an almost appraising manner. It was confirmation she’d noticed the way he evaded the question--though Shuichi didn’t speak. He let her sigh, in a non committal way, turning her worried gaze from the two of them.

Because that’s what it was. Worried. He supposed it wasn’t too big a surprise. Harukawa cared. A lot. More than some thought her capable of, yet Shuichi had seen firsthand how much she felt for others. It was sweet, even when it was displayed in the Harukawa-type manner she presented.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice lacking reassurance, “Just living.”

“That doesn’t sound very true, you know?” Himiko narrowed her eyes, “None of us are taking this well. Don’t try to hold it all in, Harukawa.”

Bold words coming from someone who had only registered what had happened a mere five minutes ago. But granted, despite the wetness of her eyes that still lasted, Yumeno seemed strong on her word. If nothing else, Shuichi was sure that the status of all their friends was good enough for her. They were alive. Yumeno was the type of person to rely on that, to persevere with that knowledge in mind. With support, she could do anything, with people to believe in her, Shuichi had no doubt in her determination.

It would have been good enough for him. If not for his family, for his memories, for this world. And even now, he felt guilty, so terribly guilty for having any remote feeling of upset when everyone was alive. Shouldn’t he be elated? Nothing but happy?

Despite it all, the rest of his emotions did not leave him.

That only made it worse. Guilt was a perverse emotion, in how easily it persevered and broke Shuichi’s control. It was a parasite, feeding off of him, a parasite that only grew the more guilty he felt for even harboring it. 

Harukawa looked between the two of them. Her lips set into a thin line.

“It’s not that,” Harukawa said dismissively, “It’s not that I’m trying to hold it in. But, it’s not like it matters, does it? I’m just glad the two of you are alright. I was worried. Can’t that be enough for now?”

Her voice was clipped. Yet Shuichi understood well enough, despite the blunt edge of her words. And he nodded.

She cared about them. That was all she wanted--or needed--them to know. And who was Shuichi to judge, really?

“It’s enough,” he said, quiet, “I just...I was worried as well. When we got out, and I didn’t have the two of you by my side…”

“It felt wrong,” Yumeno finished. She looked as if she wanted the familiar edge of her hat, hands reaching for a brim that wasn’t there. She dropped them after a moment, looking uncomfortable. “After everything, what we’ve been through it felt wrong to be alone again.”

He thought she’d stop there. But she didn’t.

“What do we do next?” she whispered, “In a world like this?”

Her words resounded in the room. It was almost like the three of them were alone: ignoring the nurse who had taken trips to escort both Harukawa and Shuichi, ignoring the doctor who tapped idly at her computer keys. Truly, real people like that didn’t matter, not right now. For now, it was just the three of them.

“We survive,” Harukawa eventually said, “It’s all we can do.”

They’d survive.

The words resonated with Shuichi. They weren’t empowered, strong--they weren’t the motivational words of the hopeful youth, those who believed in growing and rising above, those who believed in meaning. No. These words were simple. For someone like him, they were enough.

They held more meaning than something laced with false hope could have.

“We’ll survive,” he repeated, “And we’ll stay together.”

Yumeno nodded in agreement.

“No matter what happens, we won’t leave each other. Not again.”

This, they all knew wasn’t just referring to their brief time apart--it just as much meant in death, words directed at their classmates who weren’t here. Yumeno took a second, whispering the words to herself.

And the door opened again.

To say Shuichi jumped wouldn’t be a lie--in the peace of the moment, though peace was a relative word when they were in so much pain, he had not expected the disturbance. And yet, what was most surprising was the person on the other side of the door.

There was a nurse, her hands held fast on a wheelchair. And in the wheelchair was a teenager, a teenager with shocking white hair and bright blue eyes: too bright, almost. A teenager who looked so familiar, yet so different, and Shuichi had to wonder why. He couldn’t place it. Not at first. But then their eyes met and the world seemed to freeze as everything clicked into place.

“Kiibo?” Shuichi whispered.

Kiibo--because that’s who he had to be--still had that familiar look to him, yet he was all too human now. Soft, albeit pale, skin instead of the harsh shine of metal, the rounded curve of eyes framed by long lashes instead of the old strict lines of robotic eyes. Kiibo had lost the distinct features that had separated him so surely from the others, but he still looked...like Kiibo.

Kiibo who’s hair was shaggier and longer than it used to be, who’s frame was weak and far smaller in all regards than it should be. Shuichi was sure if he could see properly, he could count every rib of Kiibo’s. He was too skinny. It was disconcerting, but at the same time, he couldn’t help the sheer relief that flooded him because Kiibo was _here._ Here and alive.

Yumeno gasped.

“Indeed,” Kiibo said, voice strained. It was a voice Shuichi would know anywhere, despite the hoarse, scratchy quality to it, “I’m here. Though not as you remember me. Or...how I remember myself.”

He seemed to ponder over the situation for a moment, unaware of the way the three gaped at him. The words were a little sad. But he gave them a smile, soft and human, despite everything. Kiibo had been dead, in the simulation, a robot. Shuichi hadn’t even considered him a survivor--a horrible thought, but he supposed Kiibo hadn’t quite fit the definition at face value. He’d sacrificed himself to end the game. But he had survived until the end, technically.

He was better than Shuichi. A better person.

“When did you wake up?” Harukawa asked. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and Kiibo blinked. It wasn’t Kiibo who answered the question though--it was the nurse who had carted him into the room.

“Tachibana-kun woke up a few hours ago,” the nurse said, clinically, “We did not think he would be able to make it here today, but when he heard the rest of you were meeting, he was determined.”

Kiibo nodded, slightly. It looked like it strained his neck to do that, as he winced a mere moment after.

“If you were all awake, I wanted to see you.”

That was something Shuichi could relate to--he remembered waking up without the other two at his side. But there was something Shuichi was more focused on--the name Tachibana.

Even having the confirmation of his family to tell him that his name really was Shuichi Saihara, it was still hard to believe that all their names were real. But they were. That much, at least, was a relief. Except, for apparently, Kiibo. The name Iidabashi, the name of Kiibo’s “creator,” did not exist here. It was fictional.

Tachibana. Shuichi wondered if Kiibo was even his name in the first place. Not that Kiibo would even know that answer: his memories were strictly of the game as well.

Kiibo didn’t seem too concerned with that fact, at least. If Kiibo wasn’t upset over it, then Shuichi assumed his own upset wouldn’t likely be appreciated. He let himself relax, because if nothing else, this was another one of their friends reunited with them.

“Kiibo!” Yumeno said, in much the same way she did to Shuichi, “You shouldn’t be up! It’s bad for your health, and right now, my MP is too low to heal you.”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Kiibo seemed to deflate after a moment, eyes losing a bit of their shine.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought that maybe you guys wouldn’t want me here…”

An inaccurate assumption, and Yumeno backpedalled instantly, eyes widening at the misinterpretation of her words. Kiibo looked downtrodden in that moment, yet he’d been upfront about his insecurities: in a way typical of him.

“We don’t want you to leave, stop being ridiculous,” Harukawa rolled her eyes, “We’re glad to see you again. Yumeno is just worried about you. That’s all.”

Her words at the very least seemed to make Kiibo relax. There was something trustworthy about Harukawa. She was blunt, harsh, and she didn’t lie in moments like this, not without prompting. Shuichi nodded in affirmation, despite his own quiet during this time.

Kiibo let out a sigh of relief. It was a long breath, released out the mouth, and Shuichi once again was struck with the differences between robot and human.

“Kiibo…” Yumeno said, and she rubbed at her eyes, “You weren’t here for it. But. You being here makes it all the more important. I want all of you to promise me you won’t leave again! In death or otherwise, I need you all, got it? Pinky promise!”

Yumeno’s expression grew determined, and she stuck out a hand. It was curled into a fist, aside from the pinky finger--which was jutting out at Shuichi. He was the closest one out of the three, and despite the childish implications of what they were doing, he curled his own pinkie around Yumeno’s. He wasn’t sure if Yumeno had thought the process through any further--there were four of them, after all. So he offered his untaken hand to Harukawa, who gave it an incredulous look.

She took it anyway. And then, carefully, she laced her other hand’s pinkie with Kiibo’s. It required more work, considering his consistently weaker stature, yet Harukawa managed quickly enough. Soon, they were a chain. Of friendship, maybe, despite how cliche, how cheesy it sounded. Yumeno seemed satisfied enough.

They were connected. Just like Shuichi figured they always would be. And yet, that thought made him feel safe. Warm.

Yumeno closed her eyes. “Promise me that you’ll never leave me. Say it.”

She sounded desperate, in a way, Despite the same lazy lilt to her voice, Shuichi figured she realized just how insignificant words were in the grand scheme of things. Yet he felt the same as her--desperate for any level of consolation. And with them by his side, Shuichi believed that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

He opened his mouth.

“I promise, Yumeno-san.”

“I promise,” Kiibo looked at the ground, “Not to do it again. I’m sorry for leaving you all.”

“I promise to never leave you, or the others.”

She nodded, relieved. They all dropped their pinkies, and yet, Yumeno still gave them a firm look.

“Also, you can all call me Himiko now. You promised not to leave me. I think that deserves my first name.” Yumeno--no, Himiko said. She sounded tired, but also hopeful in a way. Hopeful for their future, and hopeful of this promise.

Promises were broken easily. But promises also brought people together and gave them something to live for. Shuichi knew he had his fair share of promises. First, his promise to Akamatsu. And now, his promise to Himiko.

* * *

It was night.

More accurately, it was one of _those_ nights. The nights where sleep seemed to evade Shuichi at every opportunity, where the shadows of furniture and medical equipment seemed to stretch endlessly along the floor of the hospital room. And above all else, Shuichi’s mind was abuzz--his heart and thoughts still warm from the meeting.

Eventually, it had descended into small talk. Jokes were made. Smiles, genuine, were cracked. Himiko had made her upset at them leaving audible when the doctors eventually decided it was time for them to leave. Though her upset wasn’t hers alone--staying with friends Shuichi felt he could trust far beat the concept of sitting alone, within a hospital room, trapped by one’s own thoughts. Yet he had recognized that they’d need to separate.

Yet sleep continued to evade him.

He’d taken to examining the room, again and again, as if he hadn’t already memorized every detail he could store in his brain. The plain white of the walls looked grey in the sheer darkness, and perhaps the night would be peaceful if not for Shuichi’s own unwanted thoughts. He was only thankful for the steady pulse of equipment that kept the room from falling completely silent, because without it--

There was a voice.

His entire body froze on instinct, eyes instantly gluing themselves to the door. Which was entirely unhelpful, since it wasn’t like Shuichi could see anything past it. But still, he did, breaths stilling in his chest. There was a conversation--and it sounded like it was getting closer, if the scuff of feet against the floor was not enough proof.

“Geez I’m not looking forward to tomorrow,” said a man’s voice. Young, Shuichi would estimate. Early thirties, maybe. “The last session was hardly pleasant. I thought Iruma-chan was going to bite Ouma’s head off.”

There was the light sound of laughter. A woman, this time.

The sound of feet stopped, not far from his door. Despite knowing there was no reason to be scared, he still couldn’t help the way his heart raced at just the thought of getting caught.

“You’ll handle it,” she said playfully, “You’re going to _need_ to handle it, with all of them. Good luck.”

A groan.

“Don’t remind me. It’s bad enough on it’s own without the rest of them there. How the fuck am I supposed to handle Shirogane?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Besides, you shouldn’t talk about a girl like that! Especially not one that just woke up.” Indignant, yet teasing. “So? Drinks? I need some time away from work.”

“Yes please.”

Their conversation continued, as they disappeared down the hallway, until it could hardly be heard. A small conversation, between coworkers, friends, maybe more. A conversation that revealed way too much for Shuichi to know what to do with. It revealed things his own doctor hadn’t told him yet, about the next group session.

And about Shirogane.

She was awake. Tsumugi Shirogane, the Ultimate Cosplayer, and the Ringleader behind the killing game. Behind the fifty-third season of Danganronpa. He could still see her in his mind’s eye, the insanity that must have plagued her to be _okay_ with what she had done. She was a monster.

And she was awake. She was nearby, and Shuichi was going to see her again. Soon, if the conversation was to be believed. Suddenly the emptiness of the room felt more like a cage, all too oppressive. He could hear her laugh. He could see her, almost.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

**Author's Note:**

> It would be a lie to say that Danganronpa and Hetalia are not my life. Still, somehow, this is my first real Danganronpa fic. It's been a long journey, ever since I started V3 and finished it. Despite there being so many "fix-it" fics that exist or postgame fics, I felt myself wanting something similar, but not quite what everyone else had created. I wanted something where forgiveness was not immediately handed out, where we'll see the whole journey: from recovery to starting out life in this cruel world, to finding romance and acceptance to what has happened. This will be a LONG journey, but I hope it's worthwhile. I've spent months coming up with this universe, so I hope it's to everyone's liking. If you have any criticism, please tell me, I'm always ready for feedback (whether it's on my writing, characterization, or just a general "you suck").
> 
> Updates will be every other Monday, to give me time to proofread and write the next chapters. I'm hoping with an update schedule I'll manage to adhere to actually writing, so here goes nothing!


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